


Call All You Want (There's No One Home)

by thatbug



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Dark-ish Characters, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Poison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 16:25:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatbug/pseuds/thatbug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras gets Grantaire out of prison. They do their thing. Based on the video for 'Telephone' by Lady Gaga, if that gives you an idea of what happens. For the kink meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call All You Want (There's No One Home)

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the kink meme prompt asking for E/R based on the 'Telephone' video, with Beyonce!Enjolras and Gaga!Grantaire: http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/13289.html?thread=8287977#t8287977.
> 
> They kill people. 
> 
> Title is from Telephone, because why not?

Grantaire hates prison. 

He smokes more than he should. No reason not to; Enjolras and his disapproving glares are distinctly absent. He doesn’t drink, more from a lack of alcohol than the presence of control, but it’s a step in the right direction.

He lets some handsome boy fuck him because he’s bored, then bloodies his knuckles making sure no one could ever call that face lovely again. He’s not surprised when the guards look the other way; the little shit had it coming. 

No one else tries to fuck him after that, but he does break a few more noses. 

It’s five months into his sentence when Enjolras comes to pick him up, striding like an angel into hell, no less beautiful under fluorescent lights and inside grey walls. His coat is the brightest red Grantaire has seen since he got to prison. The guard who lets Grantaire out has been checking his phone every few hours for the two days. 

The guard has a fading bruise on his neck. Grantaire considers telling him that whoever she is won’t ever call him back, but from the look on the guard’s face, he already knows.

Grantaire doesn’t worry about things like that. Enjolras never calls back, but he’ll always come for him.

Enjolras hands him a bottle of wine when they get in the car. Grantaire considers making a joke about relapsing, but he doesn’t. It doesn’t matter. They both know it won’t be the wine that kills him. 

He drinks slowly in silence, and watches Enjolras as he drives, lips pursed, eyebrows lowered, still more beautiful than any human should be. He doesn’t have anything to say, He just wants to stare at Enjolras, bask in his light.

That’s a lie; there are many things he wants to say.

“I let a boy fuck me in prison. He wasn’t as pretty as you,” Grantaire decides upon, finally. His voice is hoarse.

Enjolras twist into a wry smile. He knows an ‘I love you’ when he hears one, no matter how odd. “You shouldn’t smoke so much,” he says, and Grantaire knew it was too much to hope that Enjolras wouldn’t hear the gravel in his voice.

“I didn’t drink, though,” he responds. Enjolras gives the bottle in his hands an appraising look, like he maybe regrets giving it. Grantaire holds the bottle defensively. It’s his now.

They stop at a gas station a few hours after that. Enjolras fills the tank and Grantaire walks inside to piss and buy some food. By the time he emerges holding coffee and chips, Enjolras is sitting inside the car again, talking quietly and urgently on his cell.

Grantaire gets in and hands Enjolras the coffee silently. Enjolras just places it in his cup holder and drives off before Grantaire is done buckling his seatbelt. He only wears seatbelts for Enjolras. 

Actually, he wears them with Bahorel too. Different reasons, though.

Enjolras hangs up without a good bye. Grantaire grins at him through a mouthful of chips and wine. “New boyfriend?” he asks, cheerily.

Enjolras doesn’t smile. “Combeferre,” he says, “I don’t fuck around when you’re gone.”

This is the truth, with a quiet accusation slipped in. Grantaire sighs but says nothing. 

Enjolras takes a long gulp of his coffee. He doesn’t wince, like he did the first times Grantaire brought him coffee, like he does whenever anyone else makes it. It makes Grantaire strangely proud, enough that he doesn’t care that Enjolras is judging him. As if knowing the perfect ratio of coffee to milk and sugar erases all the men he’s fucked who aren’t Enjolras.

Grantaire dozes off, finally, once he’s finished his chips and the wine bottle is empty. Enjolras keeps driving. It’s probably not safe to let him go so long without sleep, but Grantaire has never known Enjolras to lose focus on anything. 

He wakes up, and the car is on the side of the road. Enjolras isn’t there, but Grantaire can see his white t-shirt a few yards off, facing away. Grantaire has to piss too, so he gets out and walks up to Enjolras just as Enjolras is zipping up his jeans. 

“You didn’t have to get up,” Enjolras says.

“I know how much you hate stopping,” Grantaire replies, “and I have no intention of trying to piss out a window again.”

Enjolras’s lips turn up at the corners. “I am fairly sure I never made you do that.” He doesn’t turn away when Grantaire unzips himself. It would be uncomfortable if it weren’t Enjolras or if Grantaire had any shame.

“That brilliant idea was purely voluntary,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras laughs. 

He should do that more often.

Grantaire offers to drive when they get back to the car, but Enjolras refuses. They do stop at the next motel they find. The room smells like smoke and sweat and cheap cleaning supplies, but the bed is soft enough.

They fall asleep curled around each other and holy hell Grantaire missed this.

He also missed being woken by fingers and lips, and fucked practically as soon as his eyes flick open, and that is what happens. He lies there and lets Enjolras do the work, relishing the kisses on his neck, and the soft whispers in his ear.

They shower quickly, first Grantaire while Enjolras makes a few more calls, then Enjolras, as Grantaire changes into the clothes Enjolras brought for him. He smiles when he sees that Enjolras has packed his favorite green sweatshirt.

It smells like Enjolras now, and the cuffs are getting threadbare. There’s a dark stain on the corner that wasn’t there when Grantaire last saw it. He imagines Enjolras wearing it, curled up his bed alone, golden hair spilling across his pillow, looking like a fallen angel, a god. 

He pulls Enjolras down into a kiss when he emerges from the bathroom, running his hand through damp curls. 

“I’m meeting Claquesous for lunch,” Enjolras says, once they’re back on the road. “Which means the others will probably show up as well.”

Grantaire knows what this means. “You want me on kitchen duty?” he asks.

“Jehan’s waiting tables, he’ll let you in,” Enjolras responds, and that’s that. 

Enjolras slides into a booth across from Claquesous, pretending like he doesn’t see Montparnasse a few tables over, behind his newspaper. Grantaire slips in the back.

Jehan’s grown his hair out, but the flowers are gone. He hugs Grantaire close for a few moments before picking up the coffeepot and walking back into the diner.

Grantaire makes burgers and grilled cheese and fries, replacing the salt with the tiny crystals that Enjolras provided him, dumping a bottle of startlingly blue liquid into the ketchup, dosing milkshakes and coffee and water and tea with a powder that dissolves quickly and kills quicker.

Jehan delivers it all with a smile on his face.

Enjolras back to the kitchen when it’s all over and kisses Grantaire, slow and dirty, up against the stainless steel counter, before leading him back out to where Jehan and Combeferre are cleaning up, Combeferre wiping down the tables, Jehan shutting the eyelids of the slumped over corpses.

Grantaire hadn’t noticed Combeferre when he came in. Combeferre is good at seeing to that.

Combeferre and Jehan drive off on their own, promising to meet up with the others in a few days. Grantaire embraces his friends one last time before sliding into the car next to Enjolras.

It’s as though a weight has been lifted off of Enjolras’s shoulders. He is smiling now, and the sun lights up his hair, creating a halo of sorts. Grantaire grabs his free hand and kisses his fingers. “It’s done,” he says.

Enjolras laughs happily, squeezing their palms together. “For now.”


End file.
